Chapter 12
Chapter
Quite dutifully,
Professor Quimby
Thus read the missive penned in invisible ink and delivered by I.Q.
and Penny to members of the Daughters of Genius Society.
Once everyone was assembled in the parlor of D.O.G.S.
headquarters, tea was served and Professor Quimby officially called the conclave to order, turning the floor over to Margaret as lead inspector on the purloined patent case.
As the gathering sipped steaming cups of Ceylon, Margaret endeavored to bring the room of attentive ears up to date as quickly as possible.
The sooner she relayed the information she’d gathered to her fellow inspectors, the sooner she could surrender the case into their capable hands and escape the purview of their observant gazes.
The pain in Margaret’s ribs, which had begun to spike yesterday at Cogsworth’s, hadn’t relented.
Indeed, it had worsened, keeping her awake most of the night with its piercing intensity.
As a result, her teaspoon count today was woefully low.
Enough so that Mama had insisted their carriage driver convey her to and from today’s meeting.
Actually, Mama had argued against her attending at all, but Margaret had been quite resolute.
If she couldn’t see the case through to the end, the least she could do was see it properly handed off according to protocol.
This had caused Mama to mumble something about obstinance and Papa to murmur a retort about apples and trees.
Only Margaret’s concession to take the carriage had quelled the displeased muttering on both sides.
One conclave, that’s all Margaret had to manage.
One conclave before the crash she felt coming on landed her squarely in bed for who knew how long.
Margaret could manage that much, surely?
As she carried on, Margaret breathed in measured doses.
Short and controlled, lest she trigger a spasm by inhaling too deeply.
If her friends noted a gasp or wince, they’d end the conclave prematurely to tend to her welfare.
But she was almost done relaying her progress on the case now, outlining the incriminating evidence she’d accumulated along with the undeniable shadow of suspicion said evidence cast on every single patent claimed by Mr. Dawkins.
Louisa’s teacup clattered to her saucer indecorously. “Pardon, Maggie. Did you say the purloined patents are both attributed to a J. Dawkins?”
“Indeed. As previously stated, the patents I confirmed to be stolen are attributed to a Mr. J. Dawkins in the Invention Factory’s confidential records.
Thus why I’ve included both Dawkins and Harrison on the suspect list I submitted to the chief.
My working theory is that Harrison has either made Dawkins a scapegoat, should his crimes be discovered, or that he’s coerced Dawkins into pickpocketing promising ideas for him at the patent office. ”
A snort-laugh erupted from Louisa, who covered her mouth with an ink-splotted hand just before she was utterly overtaken by a fit of giggles.
What in the ever-loving kitty cats? Margaret blinked at her friend who, though eccentric, was normally a model of decorum during official society meetings.
With a stern harrumph, Professor Quimby called for order. “Would you care to explain what you find so amusing, Inspector Mayfield? Assuming it’s pertinent.”
“Oh, I should think it’s quite pertinent.
” Louisa placed her cup and saucer on a nearby table.
“It would seem that our patent thief is a fan of Charles Dickens. More specifically, a fan of Mr. Dickens’ story Oliver Twist; or The Parish Boy’s Progress, which was first published monthly in serialized form before being printed in a three-volume novel.
In the heartrending tale, the innocent orphan Oliver meets a shrewd street urchin dubbed the Artful Dodger, who recruits the lad into a gang of thieving children who pickpocket to survive.
While the Artful Dodger is referred to by that nickname through much of the novel, there are a few instances in which the authorial narrator references his real name—Jack Dawkins. ”
Silence enveloped the conclave as this information was digested along with crumpets slathered in blueberry jam and cream.
“That’s right fascinating and all, Louisa.” Iva Leene shifted on the settee, rustling the matte silk taffeta of her mourning gown. “But how in tarnation is that pertinent to our case?”
A flustered blush swept over Louisa’s cheeks.
“Literature is always pertinent.” She clutched at her heart, where a specially stitched pocket kept her Notepad of Notions at hand to capture flashes of story inspiration.
“Whether or not it’s helpful to the solving of the case is an entirely different matter. ”
“The literary parallel might be a coincidence.” Helena shrugged, dislodging an acorn cap from her tousled plait. The bit of flora promptly bounced off the logbook in her lap before landing amid the circular carpet’s pattern of climbing rose vines.
“A coincidence is merely a connection that has yet to be explained,” Jane retorted with a gravity that belied her airy afternoon dress of palest pink chiffon.
“J. Dawkins is most likely an alias. Indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if the man is no more real than his fictitious namesake.
Do we know for a fact that there’s a J. Dawkins employed at Innovation Park? ”
Margaret shook her head, which was feeling heavier by the minute. “That has yet to be confirmed.” Whoever assumed the case after she stepped down would have to follow up. Now if she could only find an opportune moment to have a private word with Professor Quimby.
“One cannot expect to assemble a puzzle with so few pieces, Inspectors.” The chief straightened to her full height on the settee, which she shared with Iva Leene and Helena, putting Margaret at eye level with the inspectors’ gigot sleeves.
“We must continue to gather information whilst keeping in mind the clues already accumulated so we can detect the moment when a clear picture begins to emerge. Inspector Belgrave, please remind us of the key information recounted by Inspector Kingsley and recorded by yourself for the official society conclave log.”
Holding up the D.O.G.S. logbook, Helena read aloud, “In the case of the purloined patent, the evidence on record is as follows. Two confirmed patent thefts, connected by means yet unknown, to the patent office applications process and Alvan T. Harrison, Incorporated. Two potential suspects, connected by Alvan T. Harrison, Incorporated. Those suspects being one Mr. Alvan T. Harrison and one Mr. J. Dawkins, the latter of whom requires identity confirmation. Two victims robbed of their intellectual property. Victims that—as far as the thief is aware, based on their applications—are both working-class women without the funds or power to contest the originality of their ideas in a court of law. Indications of a pattern in victim selection awaiting confirmation. Indications of a larger string of thefts also awaiting confirmation.”
As Helena closed the logbook, Professor Quimby clapped her hands together, a sign of pleasure that effectively concluded the conclave for the record. “Excellent. I believe the next logical step for this investigation is to determine how far back said string of theft unwinds.”
Energy waning, Margaret shifted in her wheelchair.
That step would entail searching through all five decades of the Invention Factory’s patent records.
A monumental undertaking, which felt even more imposing thanks to the pain overwhelming her system.
This was her cue to request a word with the chief and officially step down. “Professor, I—
“Inspector Kingsley, I wish to commend you for the excellence with which you’ve conducted yourself on this, your first case as lead inspector. I’m heartily proud of you and will say as much to the Widow when I inform her of your impressive progress thus far.”
Excellence? Impressive? The affirmations snuffed the words burning on Margaret’s lips. The chief was proud . . . of her?
Professor Quimby stood and took to marching round the perimeter of the rose carpet as she continued.
“Now, next thing’s next. You must make the most of your established cover as Miss Knight and utilize the access you’ve been given to comb through the Invention Factory’s patent records and compile a list of the inventions attributed to J.
Dawkins. That list can then be cross-referenced with the rejection heap at the patent office, leaving us with a comprehensive list of inventors who’ve been deprived of their due pride and pecuniary returns.
Are you amenable to this plan moving forward, Inspector Kingsley? ”
The entirety of the Daughters of Genius Society fixed their eyes on Margaret, and she could only hope they didn’t notice the tears welling in her own.
Margaret swallowed her intentions to turn over the case.
She nodded and forced a tepid smile, despite the pain digging into her ribs.
“Yes, of course, Professor. I’ll do my best.”
She only prayed her best would be enough.